Tales From The Loon Town Cafe

by Dennis Frahmann

  “They did indeed,” mused Claire.

  “And they should have treated you that way. Because you were expected to be an adult. Times were tough. I know lots of kids who left home at fourteen or fifteen and got a job and became self-supporting. You couldn’t do that today. And what do you get? Worthless scum like that god darn Van Elkind kid. Parents won’t even take care of him. Drop kids like that off on us, and expect Thread to take care of them.” The way Bromley was going on, I thought he was preparing a speech for his next election. “You’re a romantic thing, Cynthia, what do you think?”

  “Kip is a creep and always following me around asking me out for dates when he knows I’ll never say yes.”

  “I meant what do you think about the difference between now and then?”

  Cynthia turned to Mr. Packer for support. “I know it was more romantic then, with people more interesting and real stories in their lives. I wish my life could be more interesting!”

  “Don’t go looking for an interesting life,” Claire piped in. “Someday I’ll tell you everything I‘ve been told by my little men and all the things they’ve done to me. If you knew what I knew, you’d think life was a little too interesting.”

  Thelma settled her ample self on a stool next to Gilbert. He spread out his catalogues and order forms across our counter to prepare for the big order. “Wally, my young man,” Gilbert began to inch forward. “Why gamble on getting the right ingredients fresh just when you want them. Be prepared with a fully stocked larder, and leave the risks to the gamblers.”

  Cynthia interrupted. “I can’t stay around to hear this, even though I want to. But I have to get to school in time for my trig class.” She took off her apron and threw it to me. “Whatever anyone says, I believe the old days were better.”

  “They were better then, that’s for sure. Because the Indians knew their place.” Bromley said.

  “What?” Cynthia stopped in her tracks with her hands to her hips. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t get on a high horse. You know as well as I do that those Lattigo are nothing but trouble.”

  “What!” Cynthia commanded.

  “You seem awfully sensitive about this subject today. Could it be because your daddy is doing business with the Lattigo?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your father’s just turned into another Indian lover. He’ll be sorry he lined up with them.”

  “Bromley,” Claire said peevishly, “don’t get started.”

  Cynthia’s face was flushed, and her need to get to class forgotten. “American Indians have been wronged by this country. We broke our treaties with them and we brought diseases that killed them in the millions. And that was after stealing their land!”

  Bromley snorted. “And now they’re all lying drunk in the streets. If not the streets of the reservations, then they’re in their own little ghettos in cities like Minneapolis and Milwaukee. At least we kept our schools from being consolidated with those greasy Lattigo.”

  Mr. Packer stepped forward and put his one hand onto Bromley’s shoulder. “I thought you enjoyed the cool weather. Let’s go enjoy it together.”

  “How can you say such horrible things?” Cynthia was getting emotional again. “What about someone like Chip Frozen Bear? He’s done wonderful things for the Lattigo. And he’s smart and good looking.”

  “Maybe you’re in love with Big Chief Frozen Bear?” Bromley started laughing.

  “I’m late for class.” Cynthia was out the door.

  We were all quiet. Gilbert was looking at his sample books. Thelma was staring back into the kitchen. Claire was looking sadly at Bromley, and for a moment, I wondered if the old rumors about the two being brother and sister were true. Mr. Packer’s hand still rested on Bromley’s shoulder. “Let’s take that walk.”

  “What the hell is going on?” I wanted to know.

  “I just want to sell some canned goods,” said Gilbert. “So what can I interest you in?”

  I wasn’t in the mood to choose a case of cling peaches or debate the price of mayonnaise. “Let Thelma do the ordering,” I said. I walked to the door and stood there, looking out over the square.

  The skies were dark and cloudy, and the wind had not died down. It looked like it might rain, and then I corrected myself. The temperatures were below freezing, so it would be snow. The seasonal cycle would continue. If the past were any predictor of the future, I had five months of almost daily snowfalls to anticipate. A bleak thought for the beginning of November. I thought of the earlier fire alarm. Maybe, someone had set their house on fire on purpose just to escape to warmer climes.

  Now the town ambulance pulled through the square heading north on 17. It was silent and slow moving. “Isn’t that odd,” I mused aloud, “they’ve called out the ambulance but they aren’t bothering to put on the emergency light. Or was that the rotating light that got broken at Cynthia’s prom?”

  “Wally, It probably means the person’s already dead so there’s no need to hurry,” Thelma replied. She quickly turned back to Gilbert, “And I think we should get a carton of the canned peaches.”

  Already dead, I thought, and she suggested it so calmly. More interested in buying some peaches from Gilbert. “Wait a minute,” I turned back to the order-happy duo, “no one’s buying any more canned fruit for use in this restaurant. Next thing I know you’ll be asking for a crate of Velveeta cheese.”

  “I guess you better cancel that order too,” Thelma said. Then she laughed. “Don’t worry, Wally, I only ordered what we really need. Gilbert won’t take advantage of me. After all he wants to keep our business.”

  “Certainly I want your business, but don’t be too quick to think I wouldn’t take advantage of a lovely woman such as yourself,” Gilbert said, fingering the tip of his polka-dotted bow tie.

  “Such a flirt,” Thelma responded, “but no time for any of that foolishness. My bread dough in the kitchen needs punching down.”

  “To be kneaded by your hands. Ah, what a delightful pleasure that would be.”

  “But could you rise to the occasion?” Thelma asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Should I leave?” I asked.

  “Not at all. I must be going myself,” laughed Gilbert. “Appointments to keep and all of that. But before I go, I must ask this wonderful cook if we could arrange to meet for dinner on her night off. I could cook for her my ambrosial pleasures.”

  Thelma giggled, and said, “I’d be delighted.”

  “We’re closed on Mondays,” I said. “She can see you then.” I found Gilbert’s ways smarmy, and I wished that Thelma wasn’t so easily entranced. He walked out the door with a wink and a smile.

  “What is going on,” I said again.

  “Can’t I go on a date?”

  “That’s not what I mean. Everyone so edgy today. Cynthia never gets upset. Bromley is always trying to curry Red’s favor. Did the universe get re-ordered overnight and someone forgot to tell me? I don’t get it.”

  “Wally, remember when we were picking raspberries this summer? And I told you that people in this town were more complicated than you thought. Well, you’re finally discovering that not everyone’s some simple twit in a story you’ve written. You can’t make them do whatever you want so your life will be just so. Just remember that when you left your magazine in Manhattan, you gave up being the author. We write our own stories, and sometimes the endings ain’t going to be the ones you want.”

  “Now look at Red who’s up to something. I don’t know what it is, but I know that he’s ensnared you somehow. And Bromley’s dipped his toe into it and is testing the waters because he don’t want to be left out of the boat. And when that old blubberboat knows he won’t drown, just watch how quickly he swims into your hullabaloo.

  “And that Chip Frozen Bear has been around Thread a lot more than any Indian I’ve ever known in the past. You’ve seen how often he’s in here. He’s a good-looking kid, and since Danny won’t pa
y no never-mind to Cynthia, she’s been watching Frozen Bear like she used to watch Danny. She’s a romantic kid, and Indians can be romantic figures.

  “I don’t know how you don’t notice these things. By the way, those people at that table in the corner needs some fresh coffee. Maybe you should take care of our customers. I got to attend to that bread dough.”

  Put in my place again, something Thelma did time after time, leaving me to wonder who was really running the cafe.

  Another blast of November air from an opened door. Red was back, his skin so pale that his hair seemed an unearthly blaze. “What is it?” I asked. “Where was the fire?”

  “Campbell got it right for once. It was a chimney fire out to the Gunderson place. You know the Gundersons? Their son Josh was your age, I think.” I shook my head to the contrary. “No? Well, maybe he’s closer to Cynthia’s age.”

  “So is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Not much of a chimney fire, was just flaring, still in the chimney, and we had it out in five minutes. Amazing the neighbors even noticed it to call it in. Didn’t do any damage to the house. Just burned the creosote that had built up in the chimney. Didn’t look like either of the Gundersons were home, so we nearly packed up and gone on our way. But then we noticed that their car was in the barn they use as a garage, so we got worried that no one had answered the knock and searched the house.”

  Red sighed. “Looked like they were sleeping, but they were dead. Anna Gunderson was in bed, all peaceful like. Found Bernard Gunderson in the bathroom, fallen off the toilet, shower water running, but him naked and dead. Ain’t fucking dignified, dying like that.”

  “What happened,” I wanted to know. “Were they murdered?”

  “You could call it that, I suppose,” Red gave a weird laugh. “If you wanted to put god damn bats on trial. Fucking ugly things.”

  “Bats?”

  “Bernard and Anna had bats in their attic and in their chimney. Fuckers lived everywhere and left so goddamn much shit everywhere that it sealed their chimney shut. Fucking tighter than any damper.”

  “Is that why the chimney caught on fire?”

  “No,” Red replied sadly, “but when Bernard turned on the heat today, probably for the first time this season, the blocked up chimney forced the carbon monoxide back into the house. And Bernard was such a frugal bastard. Damn fool. He had the best-insulated house in Thread, so it was like being in a sealed garage with a running engine. They probably passed out without knowing what happened. And then they died. In a house full of bats.

  “Bats. God damn bats.”

  We all looked at floor, caught in the tragedy of bats.

  chapter eleven

  A stark day. Dead leaves untethered from the trees lay sodden in listless piles, trampled by the rain. The still air held the threat of turning colder. A thin line of dark clouds hanging above the northern horizon portended a sleet storm. Dark clouds from the north were conquering the skies above the Town Square. By afternoon, the sun had disappeared in the murk, and it seemed to be early evening even though it was barely three o’clock. Not a customer was in the cafe.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said to Thelma, as we both leaned against the counter looking out across the empty tables, through the glass plate window and across the deserted square, “maybe I should go to that funeral today.” The Gundersons were being buried later, and I thought it could be good for business to make an appearance.

  Bromley walked out of the hotel on the opposite side of the square. Claire ran after him. They both were dressed in their Sunday best. They headed briskly in the direction of the Old World Lutheran Church.

  “Now why are you thinking that?” Thelma asked. “I could hear that old windbag Paul Mall was in here earlier. Did he make you feel guilty?”

  “Nothing like that. I’ve just been thinking about some of the things you said to me the other day, about how I’m not in touch with the town, how I want to manage this town like a story I write. I know I don’t have much contact with anyone in this town except for what goes on in this restaurant. I go to movies in Timberton. Most of what I hear in Thread gets filtered by the people who come into my restaurant. Do you think I’m isolated?” I noticed Mr. Packer was leisurely heading in the same direction as Claire and Bromley.

  “I think it’s just fine if you want to head on over to the Lutheran Church. It don’t look like no one’s planning to spend any time in this place.” Thelma started to remove her apron. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll both head on over to that funeral. I guess I can stand a dose of Pastor Paul Mall today.”

  The church was packed. Thread did enjoy its funerals. Thelma and I sat in the very back pew, which was all for the better, since being so far back made it harder to hear the sermon of Pastor Paul Mall. I hadn’t been in this church for nearly twenty years. After I had been confirmed, I never wanted to attend Sunday services. I had forgotten the naked little cherubs that were painted on this ceiling, their tiny bare butts pointed here and there.

  I tried to count the separate pieces of glass in the stained glass windows, but I lost count as I moved into the nativity scene. I had always mixed up the numbers when I was a kid too. I looked around the room to see who was in attendance. There was a lone young man in the front row. That must be the Gunderson son, Josh. Thelma told me that he had flown back from his current home in Los Angeles.

  In the pews behind him were two solid rows of men. They were mostly men from the window plant in town, probably Gunderson’s co-workers pressed into duty as pallbearers. It took quite a few when you had two people to bury. All of them seemed to be listening attentively to Pastor Mall. Thelma elbowed me, “Can you believe this old windbag?”

  Thelma’s jab made me think back on Mall’s visit earlier that day. I was always a glutton for punishment, but there was something about the pastor that I found intriguing even as I detested him. Maybe my youthful memorization of Luther’s Catechism made me an easy mark for Pastor Mall’s extreme confidence in his own worldview. It was almost as he sensed my fascination and so he did more missionary work in my cafe than in any of the town’s bars, which arguably had the more damaged souls. So when he asked, “Will I see you at the Gunderson funeral today?” the question struck home in a way that didn’t really make sense. The Gundersons never once set foot in the Loon Town Cafe. I’m not sure I would have even recognized them. “Why would I?” I responded.

  “Why? The Lord has taken back two of His precious lives to serve Him. We must honor Him by celebrating the reunion of our dear friends with His spirit, as they prepare to bathe forever in the glory of His pearly gates.”

  “They were smothered because of bat dung,” I pointed out.

  The pastor had the look of a man slapped. “They were my parishioners, and I was their shepherd here on earth. It does not matter how they died. What matters is the hereafter, not the here and now.” He looked around my cafe as though it were a fly-infested, open-air meat market in a third-world country. “Why should I expect you to understand or appreciate this mystery of life, given what you do?” For God’s sake, I wasn’t a murderer or pimp.

  But at least once a week Pastor Mall attempted to convert me. Other bar owners had their visits too, but I was the favored target since the records at the Old World Lutheran Church disclosed that my parents had once been parishioners. Mall was determined to pull me back into his fold. Not that there was much chance of that. A major turning point of my adolescent years was the distressing discovery that most people actually believed in God and the Bible. In some youthful deluded way, I had always thought that everyone simply pretended to believe. This revelation created quite a rift between my boyhood friend Tommy and me. He never truly trusted me again. It never seemed important to me that there be a supreme being in whom I could place my trust. I would trust myself and let the chips fall where they might.

  On the other hand, Pastor Mall was concerned with everyone’s chips. Once he had been called to Thread, he found plenty of fertile s
oil in our citizens’ vibrant lives and managed to plant his little seeds of disapproval into most every public setting. Wherever a group of citizens gathered to make a decision, the pastor was there. His silver-haired, close-cropped head would bob up and down as he tried to grab the spotlight. He’d stand up, his ample stomach stretching against his black shirt, his white collar straining to pop out, his eyes bulging and the tirade would begin.

  No activity was too innocent to escape his scrutiny. Why staff lifeguards at the park; swimming simply encouraged nudity. Abolish basketball; putting skimpily clad athletic boys next to bouncing cheerleader girls with skirts hiked to forbidden regions was just asking for bastard babies. The town’s festivals only attracted big city tourists with big city ways.

  But his biggest issue was with drinkers. Why should a town of 743 souls require eight places to buy alcohol—nine, if you included Red’s Piggly Wiggly? It was no use to argue that most of these places catered to the tourist trade since in his mind tourists were simply part of the devil’s plan.

  A few at the Old World Lutheran Church were giving Pastor Mall a chance. They pointed out his hard past, what with divorcing one wife and having another run off with a traveling salesman. If he could find the right woman, maybe then he’d settle down and be a good preaching man.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Pearson,” the pastor was swinging into a new pitch, “come to the burial to honor the Gundersons. I’m sure your parents knew them and would want you to do them this remembrance. Besides it would help atone for your moral decay.”

  “What!”

  “It surrounds you. That young man who works for you. His father invites in the devil, sitting in the cemetery every afternoon talking to the grave of his wife instead of accepting God’s will. And your waitress’s family. Consorting with the Indians, I hear. Plus they go to that blasphemous church. And your cook, the way she flirts with that traveling salesman. Officer Campbell has confided to me his concerns about her behavior. It would do you good to stay on the right side of God.” His collar popped open, and his triple chin wobbled like a Thanksgiving turkey’s wattle.